


Plumbing New Depths

by Camelittle



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Fluff, Humiliation, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Inappropriate Humor, M/M, Modern Royalty, POV Merlin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-17
Updated: 2018-10-17
Packaged: 2019-08-03 12:03:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,827
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16325879
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Camelittle/pseuds/Camelittle
Summary: Gymnastics Olympic hopeful Merlin takes the plunge and meets someone via Grindr. Despite his initial shock at being paired up with Prince Arthur, it all seems to go well. Well, that is, until Merlin has to go to the loo, where he falls foul of the palace’s ancient plumbing and glazing. Thankfully PrinceClotpoleCharming is on hand to rescue him.





	Plumbing New Depths

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the "humiliation" square on my h/c bingo card and inspired by [this hilarious if slightly icky story!](https://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-england-bristol-41167296).
> 
> Um, this is a bit crack-ish. *Ducks for cover*.
> 
> [If you don't find the BBC story funny, you probably won't like the fic, just saying!]

***

 

Will  
  
**Today** 12:15  
**Will:** Remember what I said Merls   
**Merlin:** What? About not phoning you during the Spurs match?  
**Will:** No! Arsehole! About texting me if your date turns out to be a dick  
**Merlin:** I’m sure I’ll be ok Will. After all, you’re a complete wanker and I dated _you_

***

The first thing that goes wrong on Merlin’s date is that he nearly has a heart attack. But that’s not his fault. There should probably be rules about this sort of thing, in which case someone is definitely breaking them, because giving Olympic gymnastics hopefuls heart attacks is definitely not the kind of behaviour that should be expected of modern royalty, however handsome.

“It’s _you_ ? You’re…” He glances down at his phone again now, to remind himself of the guy’s pseudonym. “ _Tywysog_? My. Um. Date? That’s you?” Merlin manages to squeak out, without actually keeling over, which he’s actually quite proud about. Although he does have a hand clutched to his chest, like some non-PC northern comedian dressed in drag in a 1970s mother-in-law sketch. Hastily he drops it, and tries to adopt a cool, calm, collected persona. Deep breaths, Merlin. Deep breaths. “The…” he croaks. “The… the… the actual Prince of actual Wales?”

“Who else?” drawls Prince Arthur in that famous gravelly, posh voice that has the world swooning at his feet. “As you might perhaps have surmised had you bothered to use Google Translate.”

God. Merlin doesn’t think any of his mates would even know a word like _surmised_ , let alone utter it in casual conversation, which underscores the fact that he has now totally parted company with his admittedly vanishingly small comfort zone, and is now piloting inexpertly through the tricky though exhilarating waters of new territory. Like, really new. Like, planting-a-flag-on-a-just-emerging-volcanic-island sort of new. Bear Grylls eat your heart out, sort of new.

“I’m actually Welsh, mate, I know what _Tywysog_ means,” he protests, barely able to hear his own voice above the frantic drumming of his heart. “I just thought it was some arrogant prat, not the…” He actually whimpers as he flaps his hand towards Prince Arthur’s immaculately put-together frame, taking in the harmonious picture painted by the shiny shoes, pressed chinos and tailored trench coat, the mirror sunglasses, the dazzlingly bright hair, and loses his train of thought for a moment. “Um…”

“What’s up?” says Arthur, shoving his hands into the pockets of his coat and rocking back onto his heels. “Are princes not allowed to find budding Olympic gymnasts sexy?”

Sexy? Merlin bites his lip to stop his brain from melting.

“Well, it’s.” Merlin shrugs, in a vain attempt to disguise the way that the compliment makes his cheeks burn. “It’s… well. You know. Look, it’s not as if you’re unattractive, _per se,_ right...”

“Thanks a bunch,” says the prince, with a self deprecating half smile. “Not unattractive. That makes me feel a lot less awkward.” He huffs out a half-chuckle, his breath ghosting into the autumn air.

“No no no!” Merlin colours as he hastens to correct himself. “I mean. Er. You’re not, that is. You’re the opposite, actually. Haha. Which is why I’m surprised, I mean, you don’t need to use Grindr to pick someone up, surely, rich handsome socialite like yourself? Not that there’s anything wrong with Grindr, I use it myself, obviously, haha. Mind you, it’s probably difficult, I suppose, just popping out to hook up with someone at a club without anyone knowing.  Not that I think you’d be into that sort of thing, but you’re you, and I’m, well. Me…”

Merlin gulps. Oh, God. He’s gabbling, just like Freya told him not to, and he’s managed to insult a prince, not once but multiple times. Not just any old prince, either: _The_ prince. The Prince of Wales. Duke of several posh places, Earl of many others and, Merlin happens to know from his extensive research, voted Rear of the Year for five years on the trot. Subject of the most filthy and depraved fantasies in Merlin’s frequently consulted repertoire (hence the extensive research).

Prince Arthur Pendragon is his date.

Whereas, who is he, exactly? Merlin Wyllt, 22 years old and never been kissed, decent at pommel horse, and a rising star when it comes to parallel bars, but not even top of anyone’s very short shortlist for brother or son of the year, let alone the subject of anyone’s fantasies involving mashed potatoes and vegan sticky toffee pudding. Here he is, standing in a quiet, out-of-the-way corner of Hampstead Heath on a sunny but cold Saturday lunchtime, having finally plucked up the courage to hit someone up on Grindr, and it turns out to be the Prince of Bloody Wales. He can see the headlines in the press now: Prince of Wales Plumbs New Depths with Latest Date. Or maybe… maybe he’ll be assassinated, to stop it getting in the press? Oh, God. He’s probably on some sort of hit list, right now. There are probably trained killers aiming laser sights at his back at this very moment. Oh, God. Oh, God. Oh, God. His poor mother. Losing her only son to assassins, before he’s even had a chance to snog anyone properly. Except Will when they were drunk at the school disco which doesn’t count because Will was sick all over Merlin’s shoes afterwards and couldn’t remember anything about it.

“Do I have red dots on my back?” He squirms round to see if he can spot any, but only succeeds in losing his balance and tripping on his own feet. “Ow.” The ground is hard. And wet. Which is less sexy than it sounds.

“Wow!” says Prince Arthur, doubling over with posh laughter. “For a gymnast, you certainly are clumsy!”

As he leans down to pull Merlin up again with a gloved hand, he spoils the kind gesture by smirking in that devilish way he has, the one that the tabloids keep plastering all over the front pages, and has the unfortunate side-effect of making Merlin’s knees go all weak, so that he tumbles back onto his arse, with the doubly unfortunate (or perhaps not so unfortunate, depending on your perspective) consequence of pulling Arthur down on top of him. Where he sits. Straddling Merlin’s hips and staring.

“Erm,” says Merlin hoarsely into the sudden silence. “I…I mean, it’s just a bit unexpected.”

Arthur’s still silent. Realising that he should add a honorific, and all his knowledge of Royal etiquette has vanished along with his dignity amid the thudding cacophony of his heartbeat, not that he is sure there is a precedent for this sort of situation, Merlin hastily appends as many titles as he can think of. “Erm, Your Royal Imperial Majesty. Sire.”

Prince Arthur’s eyes really are very, very blue. Even if they are busily tilting into mirthful almond shapes, with the mirth being at Merlin’s expense.

“Please, call me Arthur.” There’s an almost fond expression on Arthur’s face when he finishes guffawing and wiping the tears away from his eyes. “Dear me, Mervin.”

“Merlin. Erm. Sire, Your Highness, Um, Ar-Arthur, Um, Do you mind if you… it’s just, you have very nice thighs and all, but I can’t feel my toes any more...”

“Oh. Of course. Merlin, then!” Arthur pinks a little, even as he steadies himself with a hand to Merlin’s shoulders and pushes to his feet, revealing a brown-ish stain on the knee area of the royal chinos.  

Although it is true, he can’t feel his toes, nevertheless Merlin mourns the loss of Arthur’s warm weight on his thighs.

Grinning, Arthur flexes his shoulders. “Look. I have a feeling our date is going to be more fun than I have had in ages. Would you… would you... care to join me for luncheon?”

“Would I?” Merlin blinks up at him, before the reality hits him in a wave of incredulous joy. “Would I!” Just wait until he tells Freya, it's bound to bounce her out of her usual teenage sulk.

“Is that a yes?”

“Of course it’s a yes!”

“Brilliant,” says Prince Arthur, his shoulders relaxing. “Because I really would like to get to know you better. But please, I have to ask you not to tell anyone who I am. Not for now, at least. You’re at least partly right; if my father finds out that I’ve been meeting someone on Grindr…”

“Of course,” says Merlin again, swallowing down a little pang of disappointment, and mentally deleting the ecstatic text that he’s been composing to Freya in his head. “Mum’s the word.”

“Thanks.” Arthur nods, and smiles again, a breathtakingly gorgeous blue-eyed golden-haired smile that makes Merlin feel as if he has been blessed by an ancient Greek sex god. Or would it be an Italian sex god? Which gods were better at sex; the Greek ones or the Roman ones?

Anyway, regardless of nationality, definitely a sex god. Merlin contemplates swooning on the spot, before realising that he’s still on the floor from last time, so he blushes again instead. He really must have words with his circulatory system. It keeps sabotaging him at the most inconvenient moments. Like, when his circulation has been cut off by a pair of the finest thighs, honed as they are by years of very public success at football and polo. As he ponders the question of football players and their thighs, he concludes that it is probably the Roman gods he’s thinking of, not the Greek ones, because Italians are better at football.

“Here.” Arthur extends his hand again, more cautiously this time.

“Sure you won’t drop me?” Leaning back on his elbows, Merlin lets his mouth quirk up at one side in what he hopes approximates self deprecation.

“I think we’ll be all right.” With a tilt of his head, Arthur lets his gaze flick across Merlin’s body. “Now that I know you’re basically a baby deer, I have a better understanding of how to be gallant with you.”

“I am not _Bambi_!” Merlin protests, even as he reaches up and grasps Arthur’s hand and dear God, Arthur’s grip is strong, and now they are standing so close to each other that Merlin can feel the heat coming off Arthur’s body.

“And yet, dear Bambi, your long limbs crumpled beneath you.”

“Charming!”

“That’ll be _Prince_ Charming,” purrs Arthur. “Now. Italian or Greek?”

“What?” Merlin gapes, aghast.

Oh, God! Arthur can read his mind! He’s telepathic, that must be it, in which case, now he knows all about the way Merlin has been conjuring mental pictures of marble statues with bare bums and performing off-colour mental comparisons between them and Italian footballers and Arthur’s own admittedly sculpted behind, and he’ll never understand how…

“Um. I…” he stutters. “How did you…? I mean, obviously both are fabulous in their own way, but probably the Romans had the edge...”

He tails off, because Arthur is frowning at him.

“Huh?” says Arthur. “What are you talking about? Food, I mean. For lunch.” Consulting his watch, which is no-doubt eye-wateringly expensive, Arthur frowns and tsks. “Italian, or Greek? It’s getting late. I can phone the kitchen and have it ready when we get there.”

“Oh, thank God.” Merlin laughs out loud from sheer relief. “I was confused for a moment, there. Um, actually, is there any chance we could go to an Indian restaurant? I’m vegan, you see… and I’m a bit fed up with hummus, to be honest, and Italians tend to put chicken stock in everything, and it makes me ill.”

“A vegan gymnast? How on earth do you get enough protein?” Arthur’s thumbing his phone.

“I eat a lot of tofu.” Merlin shrugs. “There’s plenty of great soy-based products out there, these days. And I do like pulses and nuts, just a bit fed up with always having hummus wherever I go, you know?”

“Hold on, one second. I’m through to my chef.” Holding the phone to his ear, Arthur lifts a finger. “Uh, Leon? How about a vegan Indian feast for lunch?...” There’s the sound of a muffled voice that Merlin can’t quite make out, at the end of the line, before Arthur replies, “No, I am not ill. I am merely concerned for my health and that of the planet, is that so difficult to believe?...No I am not _trying to impress a girl_ !... Huh? What do you mean, _oh so it’s a boy?_ ... No, _you_ are as transparent as glass… all right, we can do an hour, don’t get your knickers in a twist..” He grimaces as he ends the call. “Never employ your friends, Merlin. It is a recipe for being mocked.”

“I’ll bear that in mind if I’m ever in a position to boss my mates around!” says Merlin, who still hasn’t got his head round the fact that the Prince of Wales just said the word _knickers_. “As it is, I have to look after my own nutrition.”

“A vegan sportsman with no nutritionist or chef - you don’t make life easy for yourself, do you?”

“All part of my charm,” says Merlin, with a shrug.

Arthur seems genuinely interested, and his smile is warm rather than mocking. This is enough of a change from Merlin’s previous dates (both of them - one with Will, and the other with a carnivorous meat-head named Valiant who didn’t believe in eating plants) that Merlin finds himself breaking into a genuine and quite possibly deranged smile.

“Right.” Arthur coughs. “Well, fine. Let’s, um. Good God.”

“Is everything all right?” Oh no, maybe the ninja assassins are back again. “Are they going to kill me?”

Panicked, Merlin twists around again to make sure that there are no laser sights trained upon him, and nearly overbalances again. But thankfully, this time there is a strong pair of hands there to grip his shoulders and steady him against a warm, solid, manly body.

“Everything’s fine,” Arthur says gravely. “It’s just… when you smile, Merlin. It’s quite… well, I don’t know quite how to describe it.”

“It’s good, I hope?”

“Definitely good. Quite possibly brilliant.”

Their faces are so close together, and Merlin is beginning to tilt his head, to mirror Arthur’s, when…

...to his eternal humiliation, Merlin’s tummy chooses to rumble loudly. It’s been a long time since breakfast. Bloody treacherous digestive system. It’s up there with his circulation as a candidate for a good scolding. Merlin’s going to have to speak quite sternly to several of his body parts at this rate.

“Goodness,” Arthur murmurs. “Unless that was a minor earthquake, in which case the British Geological Survey has got a whole lot of stuff wrong about the geology of Hampstead Heath, I suspect it is time we went back to my apartments to eat something. Come along!”

Releasing Merlin’s shoulders, he strides off down the hill with his hands in his pockets, whistling tunelessly.

“Wait a minute, you entitled prat!” says Merlin, scurrying to catch up. “I didn’t say I would come back to your place!”

“No, but you will, won’t you?” says Arthur over his shoulder. “Leon is an excellent chef.”

“Yeah, but…”

“There you go, then.” The whistling resumes.

“Are you always this arrogant, or just when you’re on a date?” Falling into step besides Arthur, Merlin starts to let himself believe that this is really happening.

“All part of _my_ charm,” says Arthur, grinning as he echoes Merlin’s earlier comment.

By the time they get to an anonymous-looking black, four-wheel drive that’s parked on the road next to the Heath, the two men are bantering as if they have known each other for years and Merlin’s beginning to think that he might just be enjoying himself on a date. For the first time ever.

It’s such a shame it couldn’t last.

***

 

 

 

Will  
  
**Today** 15:15  
**Will:** Need rescuing yet, Merls?   
**Today** 15:18 PM  
**Will:** Merls? U OK?  
**Merlin:** If I told you I would have to shoot you   
**Will:** Dialling 999  
**Merlin:** Don't you dare this is the best food I've ever tasted 

***

“Is your chef single?” moans Merlin around a forkful of delicately spiced butternut squash. “Interested in dating penniless gymnasts? I can’t offer much in the way of money… but…” he shovels in another morsel, this time of some sort of green chutney that tastes so divine he thinks they must serve it in heaven. “Adulation? Is that something he craves?”

Amusement flickers around Arthur’s lips. “So fickle. You’re meant to be on a date with me, remember?”

“Well, I’ll settle for you, if it gives me access to his cooking.” With a sigh of contentment, Merlin swirls the last remnants of his nan bread around the plate, and shovels it in along with a smear of what’s left of his dal. “The man’s a genius. I think I might camp out next to your kitchen door, and beg for scraps.”

“It’s one way to earn a living, I suppose,” says Arthur, dabbing daintily at his mouth with a napkin.

“Beats working in my uncle’s pharmacy dispensing Rescue Remedy to all the Highgate yummy mummies, anyway. ” Merlin pulls a face.

They’ve settled into a comfortable sort of banter, which Merlin can’t think about too hard, or he’ll go back to hyperventilating and tripping over things, which is not how he wants to come across. So, instead, they exchange stories – Merlin about his training regime, which Arthur seems inexplicably intrigued by (he’s probably just being nice, Merlin’s inner demon says), and Arthur about the many odd escapades of his distant Pendragon cousins.

“A pharmacist must be handy though.” Arthur takes a sip of his wine. “At least you must have access to a plentiful supply of PrEP for your many casual Grindr hookups.”

“Oh, ha, ha,” says Merlin. He washes the final mouthful down with a few gulps of sparkling water. “I’m far too busy training to find time to get involved in that scene. You’re the first one, as I’ve told you already! And given how traumatic the date is becoming, I’m not sure I’ll ever bring myself to have another.”

“Really?” 

“Yeah.” Merlin sighs. “Not that it hasn’t been lovely to meet _you_ , though. It has, obviously, because, well, you’re, well.” Oh, great. Back to being tongue-tied again. “You’re, you know!” he finishes, lamely.

“That’s good, actually, because.. um... .” says Arthur. “Um.”

His cheeks pink, and he gazes at a point just above Merlin’s left shoulder. And gosh, maybe this inarticulacy is contagious, like some sort of virulent embarrassment disease, because if Merlin didn’t know any better, he’d think that the prince is actually nervous about something. But of course, that’s ridiculous! Of _course_ someone posh and self-assured like Arthur could never be nervous about saying something to a chav like Merlin, albeit one with bendy limbs and strong fingers. Could he?

“I should like to say, aha, um…” Arthur trails off,  just as one of the serving staff comes back in to retrieve his plate. “Um… oh! Oh, thanks, Gwen. Please tell Leon he’s excelled himself as usual! And you can all knock off, now. I’m done and I don’t have any afternoon engagements. Please ensure we won’t be disturbed”

“Of course, Arthur.” She smiles, dimpling as she curtseys.

As she catches Merlin’s eye, she winks, much to his mortification. He’s just opening his mouth to protest that he doesn’t put out on first dates when she’s gone, reversing out of the swing door, plates balanced on her arms.  

“...as I was going to say,” harrumphs Arthur clearly still bent on delivering whatever message he had been stumbling on before. “I’m glad you’re not planning to go on any other Grindr dates because actually…” he trails off again, ducking his head and dropping his gaze in a way that Merlin doesn’t find hopelessly endearing, no, not at all.

“Hmm?” says Merlin, to give Arthur a helping hand.

“Actually...  I’d like to see you again.” Arthur is still looking down at the table although there’s a flash of vivid blue through his lashes as if he’s actually nervous about asking Merlin out of all people. "You know. Maybe exclusively. If you like?"

“You would?” The colour is rising from Merlin’s neck to the tip of his ears again and there’s not a damned thing he can do about it. “Well. Um. Gosh.” He bites his lip. “I mean. Um. I’ll have to think about it.”

“Oh!” Arthur looks taken aback. “Of course, I mean, do take your ti—”

“Yes please!” Merlin huffs out a laugh. “I’ve thought. And, um. Yeah! I’d love to!”

“Great!” Arthur’s face lights up in the sort of megawatt smile that when bestowed outside these four walls normally has cameras flashing, teenagers screaming, and paparazzi flocking.

All for Merlin.

For a moment, Merlin has to look away to stop being blinded. His heart is busy doing an Olympic rhythmic gymnastics routine, complete with balls and ribbons, all over the inside of his rib cage. The prince! Widely acknowledged to be the most gorgeous square-jawed hunk on this damp little island, The Prince of Wales has asked him out for a date!

What did he do to get so lucky?

Something’s bound to go wrong, surely?

***

 

 

 

Will  
  
**Today** 16:03  
**Merlin:** What do u know about plumbing?   
**Will:** …  
**Merlin:** Will!   
**Will:** I'm watching the match!  
**Merlin:** Bloody hell, mate, it's an emergency!   
**Will:** I know fuck all about plumbing!  
**Merlin:** fuck  
**Will:** Merls u ok?  
**Will:** Merls?  
**Merlin:** fml  
**Will:** You're freaking me out mate  
**Merlin:** any idea how to make a floater flush down the loo?  
**Will:**  Is that it? Fuck it mate, you're on your own, second half's starting

***

 

The prince’s apartment is in one of these rambling old Victorian buildings that, despite the efforts of modern refitters with great ideas about interior design and plumbing, fundamentally struggles to fit modern-day conveniences in around the limitations of the original design. So, although the loo is sleek and clean, with gilded trimmings and beautifully polished hot and cold water taps, there is still an ominous clunking sound when Merlin turns one of the taps on, a bit like a motorcycle being revved up, and the whole sink judders as if it is going to jump off the wall. But the worst thing about it is that no matter how many times he flushes the loo he has just used, a persistent and unsavoury item, product no-doubt of his recent, largely baked-bean-related diet, carries on bobbing around in it.

“Bloody well flush away, you stupid poo,” Merlin cries when, after the fifth attempt, the horrible little turd bobs merrily back up to the surface of the water. He’s tried everything, and he’s been locked in here for about fifteen minutes already, but the stubborn floater still refuses to do its duty and disappear round the u-bend. If he stays in here much longer, the prince will start thinking he’s done a runner, and then security will no doubt be called, and he can kiss good bye to that cosy second date he’s been so looking forward to, which would be a disaster, because apart from the whole gorgeous if conceited prat of a prince being surprisingly delightful now that they have both got used to each other, Arthur’s chef, Leon has promised to show him how to cook tofu pad Thai. With actual peanuts.

Fuck, Merlin loves peanuts.

“I refuse to be held to ransom by my own bodily processes,” Merlin says sternly to the poo. He looks vainly around for a toilet brush or some such stick-like object but there is none. Instead, he attempts a sixth flush. “Bugger off, damned turd!”

The toilet gurgles and froths enthusiastically and for a happy moment he thinks it’s done the trick. But no – before he can do a victory dance, a small brown object nudges its way back round the u-bend and resurfaces.

Well that does it. He can’t stay in here all day.

In one corner of the room is one of those old-fashioned sliding sash windows that leaves a small ventilation gap at the top when opened. If he angles it just right he reckons he can fling his poo through it, where hopefully it’ll fall gently to some forgotten part of the palace garden, encounter a sudden rainstorm (or more likely one of the palace cats, but he doesn’t want to think too hard about that) and never be seen again. Praying to all the gods that no-one is walking under the window, Merlin acts on his impulse. He holds his breath, and grimaces as he grasps the vile, cold slimy thing with one hand.

“Ugh, ugh, ugh,” he yells out loud, leaping across the room in his haste to dispose of the thing. “Fuck. Ugh.”

With a flick of his wrist, he flings it as hard as he can through the crack at the top of the window. Which is when he realises his mistake.

There’s another window, a couple of feet beyond the first one. His poo, having bounced off it, now lies trapped between the two.

Oh. God.

Icy tendrils of horror steal over him. He’s doomed.

After washing his hands extremely thoroughly, he berates his reflection while he weights up his options. They’re fairly limited at this point. He could either do a runner, in which case, he’d probably get arrested. No scrub that, he’s fairly sure that Arthur’s security team would spot him sneaking out of the building and shoot him. His poor childless mother! His poor friendless friends! All over a poo. No, he’s not going to let the poo defeat him like that.

“You little bastard,” he says to it through the glass. “Evil, turdy fucker.”

It doesn’t reply.

He could just leave it there… but then they could DNA test it. Eventually it would come back to him.

He squares his shoulders and admits it to himself. There’s nothing else for it. He’s going to have to tell someone. But Arthur has dismissed all his staff. Which leaves only one other person in the apartment to tell.

Arthur.

Oh, God. He can’t do that. Arthur would dump him immediately. The best date of his life… with the most glorious, golden and above all _interested_ prince in Europe, probably on the entire planet, ending in ignominy, humiliation and ruin. He briefly considers texting Will for ideas but doesn’t think his poor heart will survive the inevitable consequent mockery.

He’s still standing by the basin, staring at the golden taps as if they hold the answers to all the secrets of life, when there’s a knock at the door.

“Merlin? Are you okay? Have you fallen down the loo?”

“Um. Yeah,” he croaks. “I’m fine, thanks, Arthur, sorry. Just, um. A bit of, you know, haha.”

“Should I call a doctor?”

“No! I’m fine, seriously.” Merlin opens the door a crack. “Please don’t be worried!”

But Arthur does look so worried, with a thin line creasing his brow and everything. It makes Merlin’s heart melt - or it would, if his heart wasn’t already occupied sinking into his boots at the thought of telling Arthur about where his poo has ended up.

“If you’ve changed your mind about the second date, and you’d like to leave, that’s fine, I totally understand,” Arthur says, although his mouth turns down and his lip even wobbles a bit. “I don’t want you to feel that you have to…”

“No! That’s not it, Arthur, honestly! I’m absolutely fine, and I’m loving spending time with you, and I definitely would love a second date with you, it’s nothing like that… it’s just…” he bites his lip, looking behind him, and opens the door a little wider. “Um. Except, there is one… small thing. Very small. Honestly, tiny, probably not a problem at all, just…”

His eyes flick towards the offending window, and that’s when Arthur spots it.

“What the fuck is that?” says the prince.

“Ah. Yes. Well. I was going to tell you.” Smiling wanly, Merlin shrugs and tries to find the words to explain. “It wouldn’t flush away, so I…” He feels the heat rising from his neck, and oh, God. There is no word currently in the English language to describe the colour that must be washing over his cheeks right now. Purple doesn’t cover the half of it. “I…”

“It’s a poo!” says Arthur, having strode over to the window to examine said object. “A smallish poo.” He sniffs the air. “Remarkably odourless, considering.”

Oh, God! Arthur can smell it… oh no! The humiliation makes something in Merlin’s gut plummet and hot tears prick at his eyes. He shuts them, blinking madly.

“Yeah, well, that’s what I was trying to tell you, because…” Merlin swallows down a sob. “It wouldn’t flush. I tried, I mean I tried loads of times actually, and your cistern takes a bugger of a long time to fill, let me tell you, and it flushed away all the paper and that, it’s just there was one teeny little…”

“Quite big, actually,” says Arthur, almost admiringly.

“As I was saying, tiny little floater that didn’t quite make it, and I couldn’t decide what to do, so I chucked it out of the window.”

“Where it remains,” says Arthur, gravely. “No doubt attracting the attention of every insect in the vicinity. Not to mention the rats, and the crows, and th--”

“Oh, God,” says Merlin, tamping down the rising sense of hysteria at the thought of what the press might say if they ever get hold of this story. “I’ll get my coat, I am so sorry. It’s a shame, I quite liked you. Actually, I liked you a lot. It would have been nice to see you again, and Leon is such a sweetie, do you think he’ll let me get the recip--”

“What do you mean, it would have been nice?” Arthur strides over to the door and grabs hold of Merlin’s arm just as he’s attempting to escape. “I’d still like to see you again, that much hasn’t changed! I mean, if it’s still all right with you?”

“Still all right?” Merlin gapes for a moment. “I mean. I… well… of course it is… I just thought…”

“Don’t be daft.” Arthur lets out a bark of a laugh. “You’re a breath of fresh air. With your scatterbrained notions and Bambi limbs. I’ve had more fun today than I have for years! I’d be mad to lose you now!”

Merlin’s face slips into an incredulous grin. “You would? But what about the...” he gestures towards the window, unable to complete the sentence.

“We will get rid of it. Later.”

“And you still want to...”

“Of course.”

“I don’t beli--”

But he doesn’t finish what he was about to say, because Arthur steps forward and presses his lips to Merlin’s, and suddenly they’re kissing, hot and wet and glorious in the doorway of Arthur’s posh loo. They’re kissing and pressing hard up against each other, Merlin’s body responding to the heat and hardness of the line of Arthur’s body in all sorts of gratifying ways.

He gasps as they break apart, darting forward to try to catch Arthur’s mouth again with his, mourning the loss of the sensation.

“Do you believe me now?” whispers Arthur. His hair, golden and previously so smooth, is rucked up in little peaks around his ears where Merlin had held on to him, and his mouth, kissed-pink tilts up in a little smile.

“Um, actually,” Merlin croaks. “Yeah. Yeah I do!” He lets out a huff of a chuckle himself.

“Then what do you say,” says Arthur, his hands ghosting down Merlin’s flank, making him shiver. “Shall we take this somewhere more comfortable?”

“But the…”

“I’m not going to be cockblocked by a turd,” says Arthur firmly, mirth gleaming in those impossibly blue eyes and making them crinkle. “We will deal with that later!”

“Hmmm.” The posh way that Arthur says _cockblocked_ sparks all sorts of interesting shivery feelings in Merlin’s tummy. There’s another gratifyingly long and sloppy-kissy moment where Merlin tries to convey his agreement with this superb suggestion by means of his tongue but without, and this is the important part, actually speaking, other than to produce several low and probably embarrassing wordless vocalisations that come perilously close to being moans.

Okay, screw that. They’re moans, and he’s not afraid to admit it. Because Arthur’s mouth, God. That posh, royal mouth. It’s like velvet, and cherries. Cherry velvet and… and raspberries and all the things that Merlin loves. But he’s being so wanton and easy… what if Arthur’s one of those blokes that prefers a challenge?

“I’m not easy,” he manages to squeak when Arthur’s hand cups his arse and gives it a little squeeze. “I don’t put out on first dates!”

“It’s a good thing that you spent so much time in the loo, then. Because this definitely counts as our second, or possibly even our third venue, and therefore date. And in case you are wondering, I have more dates planned.” murmurs Arthur through his open lips, even as he pulls Merlin’s hips closer and gyrates against them.

“Oh yeah?” says Merlin. “When might they be?”

“Hmm.” The hard line of Arthur’s erection brushes against Merlin’s, the movement making funny little pinging sensations zing through his cock, so nearly perfect that he can hardly think straight. “What are you doing in say… five minutes’ time?”

“Mmmmm?” says Merlin, because really there are too many delicious things happening for him to be coherent right now. “Mmmmm.”  What he’s trying to say is that actually he really doesn’t care, but clearly he manages to get the point across.

“Great,” says Arthur with a lazy flip of his eyelids. “Then perhaps that can be our fourth date right then.”

***

 

 

 

Will  
  
**Today** 17:30  
**Will:** Match has finished Merls are you coming home for Strictly?   
**Merlin:** ...  
**Will:** Merls? Shall I save you some pizza?  
**Merlin:**... 

***

It has been a fabulous third (or is it fourth?) date but unfortunately, where Merlin's concerned things always go pear shaped - or rather, turd shaped - eventually. That’s just what happens to him. This whole afternoon has been all kinds of fabulous and he can't help being reminded him of that occasion when he’d been rehearsing his _still rings_ routine for the British Championships and it had all been going brilliantly until a pigeon had flown into the arena and distracted him. It had taken them ages to untangle his legs, and coach Geoffrey got a hernia from laughing so much.

And unfortunately, Operation Turd Extract is not going as well as they had hoped. It had seemed like such a good idea at the time. They had both been convinced that with a bit of help from Arthur, Merlin could get through the 2 foot gap at the top of the inner window, extract the turd, and then get out again. The first part of the operation, in which Merlin cast a towel over said object, had gone swimmingly. But that was when it all went horribly wrong.

In retrospect, it was probably Arthur’s fault for suggesting this hair-brained plan in the first place and then letting go of Merlin’s hand at an inopportune moment. Of course, that’s of little comfort to Merlin as he dangles, helplessly, upside down, precariously between two panes of glass, glaring at the towel draped over the smug little shape of his poo, while the Prince of Wales talks urgently into a mobile phone.

“Yeah, Percival, thanks mate, I appreciate it. Yeah, as discreetly as possible. No, don’t tell Morgana. No. Definitely not. Okay. See you in a minute.” He pockets the phone, comes up to the window, and grins through it. “Don’t worry! It’s going to be fine! My friend Percival is in the fire brigade. They’ll be here as soon as. Everything’s going to be fine.”

“It’s all right for you,” Merlin manages to say, his mouth pressed up against the glass. “You’re not sharing a confined space with a poo that epitomises evil. I think it might be cursed.”

“Cursed?” Arthur sits down on the closed loo seat. “How can a poo possibly be cursed?”

Merlin can’t shrug in this precarious position, so he snorts instead.

“The bloody fire brigade had better not laugh at me,” he says morosely.

“I’m sure they won’t.” Arthur is obviously trying to be reassuring, but rhythmic huffing noises betray his mood. “They’ll be very… ah...ha... sensitive.”

“It’s not funny!”

“N...no!” wheezes Arthur. “Definitely… haha… definitely not. It’s distinctly un-funny, really. Um.”

“You can go off people, you know.” Merlin tries to scowl, but it’s hard given the effect of gravity on his facial muscles. It’s a good thing that he’s had lots of past practice at dangling upside down.

There’s a distant ringing sound.

“Ah, there they are,” says Arthur, hastily exiting the room. The door closes on a suppressed peal of laughter.

At least Arthur must have got himself under control before he briefed the fire brigade, because in the ten minutes that it takes for his hulking friend Percival and Percival’s sympathetic-sounding friend, Elyan, to free Merlin from his perch and remove the window, neither of them so much as smiles once.

“Do you want us to retrieve the artefact, sir?” says Elyan, respectfully, once it’s done.

“No, no, Elyan, thank you, that will be all.” Arthur on the other hand, is still having trouble controlling the wonky movements of his mouth, and his eyes keep breaking out into crinkles that betray him.

It’s a good thing that they’re such handsome eyes, or Merlin might be properly cross, rather than just relieved at finally being free, and the right way up. As it is, he fires Arthur his best scowl as he flexes his aching shoulders and massages the circulation back into his hands.

“Thanks for your help,” he says.

“You’re welcome. Now, stay safe,” says Percival sternly to Merlin. “And next time you’re trying to dry a precious object, use a towel rail. Or a hairdryer, or something.” He jams his hat back on his head.

“Yes,” adds Elyan. “Next time, don’t just dangle it like that. What if it had dropped from a top floor window? It would have broken, for sure. And you could have hurt someone.”

“What?” Merlin just gawps at them and Arthur, puzzled. “Well, I suppose it--”

“Right,” interrupts Arthur. “Sage advice. Now, thank you gentlemen! I am sure you have other emergencies to attend to...”

He engages his best “Prince of Wales” voice before ushering them out of the room. Closing it behind them, he slides down onto the floor, grinning broadly.

“What on earth were they going on about?” The relief has made Merlin feel a bit giddy, and he can’t help laughing a little bit at the absurdity of the situation as he sits down next to Arthur with his back to the door. “Hurting someone? It’s a poo, not a hand grenade…”

The solid outline of Arthur’s body warms his side. It jiggles as he chuckles.

“Yes, well. I told them you’d been working on cleaning silverware for me, and that this item had got wet, so you were trying to dry it.”

“So they don’t know what it is?” Merlin’s relieved smile broadens as he waves a hand towards the towel and the hunched shape that lies beneath it. “Thanks, Arthur.”

“Don’t be too excited. I also told them that you have a bizarre mental affliction!”

“Clotpole.” Merlin huffs out another weak laugh.

“You can’t address me like that!”

“Sorry, _Prince_ Clotpole,” grins Merlin.

“Prince _Clotpole_? I rescued you, _Bambi_ ,” Arthur rejoinders. “I’m your Prince Charming, at the very least.”

“And I don’t have a mental affliction! Although, on the evidence, I can understand why you might think that…well, I mean, it was kind of stupid of me.”

“Well…” Arthur shrugs and a playful smile tugs at his lips. “I wasn’t going to say anything. But it’s okay. Seriously, I haven’t had this much fun in months. Besides which…” He turns, his face close to Merlins so that his breath gusts hotly across Merlin’s neck and throat. “Now let’s get rid of your turd and get back to what we were doing before.”

And Merlin can hardly disagree. Not when Arthur’s doing _that_ with his tongue.

***

 

 

 

Will  
  
**Today** 19:22  
**Will:** Strictly's started Merls you there?  
**Will:** text y for i'm shagging and n for i've been kidnapped   
**Merlin:** ...  
**Will:** mate?  
**Merlin:** y  
**Will:** I'm happy someone's scored, shame it's not Dele Alli  
**Merlin:** ...  
**Will:** mate?  
**Will:** wtf merls your iphone says you're in kensington palace...? spill the beans  
**Will:** mate?  
**Merlin:** ah, ok... you're not gonna like it  
**Will:** whoa don't tell me he plays cricket?  
**Will:** or... oh, God. He's an Arsenal supporter, isn't he?  
**Merlin:** y  
**Will:** You've plumbed new depths there Merls   
**Will:** Tell you what, I'll eat your pizza and we can call it quits  
**Merlin:**...

**Merlin:** deal 

 

***END***

**Author's Note:**

> Not my characters, I'm not getting paid. Huge thanks to Fifty-Fifty and Mathi for reading, laughing, and encouraging me to post. And massive shout out to the fabulous codenamecarrot and la_temperanza for sharing their tips on work skins here [How to Make iOS Text Messages on AO3](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6434845)


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